


Any Other Night – 6/9 – Searching for Sylar

by motsureru



Series: Any Other Night [6]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-27
Updated: 2007-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Broken Glass, a Sylar/Mohinder-centric continuation after Season 1.  Spoilers for Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Other Night – 6/9 – Searching for Sylar

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [hugh](http://hugh.livejournal.com/) for beta work~

  
**Teaser:** _“Principled men are capable of all manners of deeds, Mr. Bennet. I daresay that’s what makes them so dangerous.”_  


  
  


.6 Searching for Sylar

 

            “What? How can you _not_ like Frank Sinatra? Dean Martin?”

            “What? It’s not a sin to like different music, is it?”

            “It’s a sin to not like _great_ music. They’re classic. There’s never been anything like it in our generation.”

            “Now you’re starting to sound like Zane Taylor.”

            “Hey, I’d be giving you this lecture either way.” Sylar reached over and gave a playful tug on one of Mohinder’s curls, letting his thumb brush against Mohinder’s jaw. The casualness with which Sylar treated Mohinder’s body as his own was as odd as it was flattering to the man. The entire day had been like this; small touches, disarming smiles, that subtle appetite behind dark eyes.

            In public, away from the confines and restrictions of the car, these attentions were at their worst. Mohinder might be looking down at a snack food, deliberating between his health and his sugar level, when Sylar would sneak up quietly behind him. Strong hands suddenly held him by the waist, slipping easily, though for a second hesitantly, into place. They begged the question, ‘Is this alright?’ and asked it with an intentional dismissal of the answer he might get. When Sylar leaned in over Mohinder’s shoulder, his breath tickled the curve of his ear. “What are you hungry for?” The hands moving to rest on Mohinder’s hips and the heat from Sylar’s back made Mohinder shiver.

            “Not sure,” he murmured, dropping his fingertips away from gaudy plastic. “Don’t want to be up all night from coffee… just need a little sugar to get past Des Moines.” Sylar’s attentions were flustering and distracting. Whenever Sylar got this close, Mohinder couldn’t help but glance around and assume other people would take notice. 

            That didn’t change, however, the way those touches made Mohinder’s stomach flutter or his lips curve into an almost shy smile. It had been years since someone had lavished this kind of attention on him, since he’d been the object of someone’s affection instead of passing fancy. Mohinder couldn’t bring himself to express any will against it, for he had none. Sylar’s bright and flirtatious manner, which he’d endured all day, was rare and strangely enjoyable. Mohinder didn’t want to rob him of such a treat for them both.

            Sylar’s feelings, however, were not so considerably light-hearted. Something Mohinder mistook for excitability was in fact a very torn feeling; Sylar loved to play this game and take on the role of lover and boyfriend. It was an amusing, sensual game. On some level, it felt very natural. But every second of it sank worry and doubt deeper inside, reminding him of the measures he had to take to ensure his own survival. He found himself checking watches and consulting maps, fingers itching in an unusual nervousness and anxiety over what was to come.

            Night came all too quickly.

 

 

            “Is this Mr. Noah Bennet?”

            “Speaking.” The voice was wary. Unknown numbers weren’t particularly welcome.

            Preston leaned back in his chair and took a second to appreciate the weight of the risk he was taking. “Mr. Bennet, my name is Detective Adrian Preston and I’m with the 110th precinct of the NYPD, and I’d like to speak with you. Would you be willing to come to the station?”

            “I’m afraid I’m no longer in New York, Detective. What can I do for you over the phone?” Bennet had suspicions about calls like this; people could pretend to be anyone over the phone. Was this some reporter trying to make a name for himself over the Kirby Plaza incident? Or was this a Company Man?

            “I’m looking for information on the relationship between a man named Mohinder Suresh and a man named- …Sylar.” Preston didn’t feel he needed to be terribly guarded with how he put down his cards in this conversation- if Hanson was telling the truth, this Bennet man should know everything. The momentary silence on the other end said enough.

            “…I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

            Preston’s eyes narrowed. “You and Mohinder Suresh were both present at and questioned after the Kirby Plaza incident some weeks ago. You both made official statements to the police that involved the name Sylar. Our precinct has been investigating this man for a crime under a different name, and all roads are leading back to Suresh. I’d like you to explain to me why.”

            “As I recall,” Bennet began carefully, “The police said that Sylar was most likely dead. That makes whatever connection you might have irrelevant, doesn’t it, Detective?”

            “Not if he’s still alive,” Preston corrected. “And not if Suresh is an accomplice.”

            Bennet took a second to let that hit home. How would a police detective on the outside draw these sorts of conclusions? Hanson… “I don’t happen to know Dr. Suresh very well, Detective Preston. But he’s a principled man. His kind wouldn’t be one to work with a man like Sylar.” Clearly, this detective didn’t have his facts straight. If he knew the history between those two, he wouldn’t be jumping the gun.

            Preston’s lips turned to an irritated frown. “Principled men are capable of all manners of deeds, Mr. Bennet. I daresay that’s what makes them so dangerous.”

            Feeling the stress of the conversation rising, Bennet began to feel a nagging doubt in the back of his mind. He couldn’t trust anyone, could he? “I assume you’re not just throwing conspiracy theories at me, Detective? You have some sort of evidence to back up what you’re suggesting?”

            He knew something. Preston was sure of it. He’d hit a sore spot, or overturned an opinion. He’d given this Bennet man a new uncertainty that he obviously wanted to correct or confirm. “I wouldn’t be calling you if that weren’t so, Mr. Bennet. Sylar is still at large. We have reason to believe that Suresh may be helping him avoid discovery.”

            The serious expression on Bennet’s face would have been a dead giveaway, if Preston had the opportunity to actually see it. “I don’t understand why you’re contacting me, then. I’m just a paper salesman. It was pure chance that I met Suresh at Kirby Plaza. You can read the police report.”

            Preston took in a slow breath, feeling suddenly tired of this dance. “Mr. Bennet. Through investing my time investigating in men like Sylar and Dr. Suresh, I’ve come to believe that nothing about this is chance. You’ll have to bear my skepticism.”

            A long pause of contemplation followed. Bennet weighed his options. Getting an entirely new branch of the law mixed up in this was far more dangerous than he could anticipate. If the Company got word and planted evidence, gave a name, anything, it could mean the end for them all. And if this detective was correct in his assumptions…

            “Is this off the record, Detective Preston?”

            Preston’s heart leapt in his chest. “Certainly, Mr. Bennet.”

            “Then off the record, let me tell you,” he chose his words carefully, adjusting his glasses on his face. “If there is a problem, it will be taken care of. But if you value your life and your job, then you’ll let the proper people handle it.”

            “…Are you making a threat, Mr. Bennet?”

            “A suggestion. After this, you won’t be able to call this number again.”

            Preston heard the sound of disconnection. He held the receiver against his ear for a long moment. Hanson, Murphy… they were right. This was bigger than him. This was something he had to give up. Preston had the dreadful feeling that, with this call, he had signed someone’s death warrant.

 

 

            The ease with which his travel could be accomplished was nothing new to Sylar. He’d spent weeks and weeks traveling the country, seeking out those people with the abilities he desired. The difficult part was Mohinder, or, rather, reconciling with the deception he was going to employ on the man. Everything went almost too well according to plan. They decided to get past Des Moines but not finish the journey that night, opting for an earlier retirement to sleep. It wouldn’t be that much driving, in truth, but it was best to be well-rested before they moved into the next level of the unknown.

            They stopped for the night at the juncture of state highways 44 and 25. There was a small motel at the crossroads there, one too small to house a queen size bed in their rooms; singles or doubles only. Sylar felt a faint aggravation at that, but he couldn’t place it properly with reasons his mind wanted to justify. He simply interpreted it as a sign; tonight the gap between himself and Mohinder, the space dividing them in the name of murder, was going to be invoked once more.

            As the night progressed, Sylar had become more of his brooding self again, the small touches and smiles of the day fading with the light. He’d never felt anxious before murder before. He wanted to feel sure that this time they would mean nothing to him, too. He wanted to. But perhaps for the first time Sylar was considering the consequences as well. 

            By eleven, they were in their room, undressing for the night. While Mohinder was brushing his teeth, Sylar stared at the two beds. Stared at the distance that was to grow between them again. He wandered over to the bathroom door and leaned his forearms against the frame, watching Mohinder’s back as he leaned over to rinse his mouth and set his toothbrush aside. The man wiped his lips and turned- when he nearly ran right into Sylar’s hovering figure, he gave a startled gasp.

            “Sylar!” he breathed, touching a hand to his chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.” That look of fear paled into something softer. A warm, uninhibited smile. Mohinder moved forward, thinking Sylar would move so he could exit, but the man did not. He regarded Mohinder with a contemplative, somber look. An unintentionally dissecting gaze. Mohinder stood inches before him, gazing up into it questioningly. “…What? What’s wrong?”

            Sylar leaned forward, then, dipping down so that his shoulder blades nearly touched by the stretch of his supporting arms. He tilted his head and took Mohinder’s lips soundly, expecting nothing in return. A strange look, a twitch, perhaps even silence as his only reward. This might be his last.

            But Mohinder surprised him. Before he felt the movement of lips, he felt a hand on his face. Mohinder’s palm rest over his stubbled cheek and his lips moved smoothly to return the kiss. It was not shy, nervous, or even desperate as such things had been the night before. Mohinder was kissing him, like a lover, like someone familiar. If Sylar believed he had a heart, he might have known the feeling inside as breaking.

            Mohinder pulled back with a bashful sort of amusement on his face. “That’s the password, right? So I can escape the bathroom and go get into bed?” he asked with a lift to his eyebrows.

            Pulling back, Sylar stepped aside, the edges of his lips lifting. “Yeah. You got it.”

            He left at 11:43 P.M., amazed at how quickly Mohinder could fall asleep.

 

 

            Paula Gramble was a simple name to find in a phonebook. She lived off of highway 25, so Sylar had no problem hitching a ride the twenty minutes it took to find her exit. Truckers were nice people, and Sylar knew he could have that friendly smile if he needed it. It was cold outside during the distance he did have to walk; that was the reason he told himself his hands were tap-tapping nervously in his pockets. 

            Sylar began to question whether or not he was even heading down the right roads to this way or that when he finally noticed a sign for a strip-mall within the next mile. One of the signs read ‘GRAMBLE’S HOLISTICS AND HEALTH’ in large, faded pink letters. It was all too obvious, too easy. But then again, it always had been, hadn’t it? This wasn’t a challenge, merely a hunt. Sylar was an excellent hunter.

            It wasn’t so much a strip-mall as it was a collection of stores, remnants and homages to Mom and Pop legacies with the occasionally gaudy modern building crammed unpleasantly between hand-painted signs and welcome mats. At this hour, the streets were obviously abandoned, but a light here and there showed in the apartments above older shops. Sylar stalked down those dead streets, watching how long a shadow he cast before him.

            Gramble’s Holistics and Health sat unobtrusively on the corner of one block, a ‘Sorry! We’re closed.’ sign dangling in the window. Sylar stood in front of it for a long moment, recollections of Gray & Sons chipping quietly away at the back of his mind. He peered through the glass, listening as his mind turned the locks slowly. He stepped inside without a sound, inhaling slowly the scent of various teas and therapeutic candles that lined the shelves in armies of threes. Various tables lined the shop, arranged in an easily accessible pattern and complemented with hand-drawn signs in purple-penned calligraphy.

            Sylar walked slowly, allowing his hearing to reach farther than his sight. There was a heartbeat not far, on the opposite side of the first floor, maybe, and breathing accompanied by a light, tuneless humming. Suddenly, Sylar’s own heart began to beat faster.

            Excitement over the kill, he told himself. His heart pounded in anticipation of what new discovery he might yield, what new power he’d gain. Traversing the shop’s main area to a small hallway leading back, Sylar drew ever more near to the sounds.

            The hallway was lined with wood paneling and darkness, all leading back to a final door, where a sliver of yellow light dared peek through. A strange tingle worked its way through Sylar’s fingers as he brought himself to the door. His neck felt tense, the hairs on his arms standing on edge. He paused a moment, listening to the scrape of supplies across tables guarded by the wooden countertop between them. Finally, the man leaned forward, willing the door to part inches more in slow succession for him to peer inside. 

            She wasn’t an especially attractive woman, but he could only see her back and glimpses of a profile. She was of darker, olive skin and brown hair tied messily in a bun. She wore an old t-shirt over jeans and an apron looped around her neck and waist, tightening loose clothes around a moderately built frame. Her back workshop looked much like a kitchen, but the island of counters that stood in the middle were lined with a hanging rack not touched by pots and pans, but rather various plants and flowers, some fresh and others old.

            Sylar watched as the woman stretched her shorter reach to hang fresh items, humming to herself, oblivious of her fate. _So unaware. So innocent._ He’d found her. He was seconds from pushing the door open further when the woman reached up, touching her hand affectionately to a fresh green group of herbs dangling above her. The air gave a subtle waver, and Sylar watched as their leaves began to recede back slowly and their color fade to a pale brown. His eyes widened.

            She then moved down and crossed the kitchen, a bowl of fruit set aside on another counter. Peaches, apricots- Sylar watched as she picked them up tenderly, and like a guiding mother, watched over their subtle shrinking and shriveling shapes. He stared intently as she drew the moisture from every last one, left with a potentially good market for home-dried fruits. How lucrative a business decision to make.

            Sylar pushed the door open slowly and stalked in silence across the room. His shadow reached her before his body, and Paula Gramble spun abruptly around, a gasp on her lips. “Wh-”

            He lifted a palm and shot her body back coarsely, hearing the slam of cabinets when her back collided with them. He held her body pinned, inches above the floor, with her waist bent over the counter’s edge and her head pressed back tightly to the cupboards above at an awkward angle. The woman gave a gurgled attempt as a scream, but Sylar merely held his invisible grip tighter, crushing those desperate vocal chords while she squirmed in terror and flailed her hands about her throat in horrified struggle.

            It was a sudden realization- that he wasn’t breathing properly. That Sylar’s eyes were wider than they should have been, echoing her fear. His chest was unexpectedly rising and falling with uneven breaths, and his hands began to shake. _What do you have to gain?_ Sylar watched, riveted, as her brown eyes flicked from side to side, from his face to his eyes, struggling to comprehend her imminent death. Sylar swallowed and lifted his other hand, pointing a finger at her forehead. His fingers were trembling. _What will he do when he finds out? Right into the hands of the enemy… His face…_ Sylar’s heart began to hammer and his palms began to sweat. Cold chills coursed down his spine. _What does she mean, in the end? After this… After this, then what? What does it mean?_

            The panic that crept into Sylar’s mind was suffocating, devastating. He felt his mind begin to spin and his chest grow painfully heavy. This was dread. He was feeling dread. Sickness crept slowly in his stomach. He had never felt anything like this, not even under Bennet’s watch. Sylar’s breath caught in his throat. _Just DO IT!_ The woman began to choke on stifled screams as the feeling of incision into her scalp lead to a trickle of blood down her temple. Sylar watched her squirm and cry, scratch at her throat for release.

            He was going to vomit.

            His hold releasing hastily, Sylar stepped back and watched her collapse onto the tiles, a choking, sputtering mess. Her body curled up tightly, coughing and sobbing and gasping all at once as she tried to scream. It sickened him. With a twist of his wrist, Sylar sent her body hurtling to the side, cracking her head purposefully against the wall. He watched her body slide down, twitching with an unconscious struggle to right its injuries. Would this make it easier?

            Sylar stepped closer, leaning over her ungainly form. Now it would be so easy… so easy to… _obliterate everything he created with me._ Sylar backed up into the counter behind him, covering his face with his hand. He shook his head several times, trying to reconcile such ignorant, sympathetic thoughts in his mind. His skin felt clammy and damp, his tongue thick in his throat. Utter panic. Sheer terror. He ran his fingers through his hair, breath shaking when he took it in. This was Mohinder’s fault. Before Mohinder he’d never felt fear like this. 

            _What had he done to him?_

            Sylar turned and ran. He turned and he nearly tumbled over his own feet fleeing the sight of his failure. Without this, he was nothing. He could be nothing. Murder had been his only companion for months, and now Mohinder had tried to replace that with himself. _How could he?_  


            Sylar ran. He ran and he ran and embraced the winter chill as the comfort from the eyes he swore didn’t sting and the heart that wouldn’t stop pumping fear instead of pride. He swallowed down the nausea in his stomach and the revulsion he felt at his own inadequacies. 

            He didn’t want it.

            He didn’t want to be Gabriel Gray ever again.

            But surely Gabriel Gray was the only person, never Sylar, who would have fled in such absolute fear of himself and what he’d become.


End file.
